show me how the sun / hides if you call it / and in every fold and river stretch of summer / every mote of white dust settling / in winter and its oiled light / i call the sun / i am aware of every mile of skin you cross to touch me / every mile made and every stone / river-stone / in these walls / is this the sun / is this what you wanted me to see / i cannot bear to think of you now / your steady gaze / your autumn love / like a flower your hands closing around mine / how could i / where was this black heart in me / i pull it out in pieces / show it to you like the sun like reason / please forgive me / please want me still / in summer in winter / touch the silk of my skin / cross these miles again and say you'll have me / can i be enough / though walls on walls / and though the sun cannot enter here / beneath the surface i am cold / i am the sun but when it strikes the frozen glass of dark water / i am the sun but without heat and my light is thin and wavering / i want you / in every shape my mouth makes / all the press and lift / press and repeat / the sun shies back but i long to see it / i long for you to show it to me / bright lines and rhythm / fading / you are out of reach / i reach / it is inconceivable to me / the sun now / how could i / how could i

i come to you first

in all things, and i am

warm and wanting.

there is no hour

i do not think of you, and no room

in which i do not wait.

does that even compare

to the long black telescope of night

and the moon in her moon-cage?

without the guise

of dispassion, immutability,

come to me.

i am warm and wanting.

inside a sparrow's heartbeat, and in each

quiet place i wait.

i am looking for joy in sorrow.

i am counting the days. small white birds take flight

and i am here, so near

to you but for these oceans.

i am waiting for the light to come.

i am alone and in the grip of sanity, i never

knew how love could rip

from me all i am. i have thought that i do not

want to live. dreams of you

pass by too quickly to grasp, and i linger

in sleep far longer than i should

and when i wake i cling to the whisper

of your dream-voice, the fading

shape of your smile. i can almost remember

the color of the sky that day

your hand in mine, or mine in yours

i was so small. i am still

so desperately small. the memory

of you sits hard in my throat

and i cannot see. i never knew how love

could cut, how the knife

would stay inside all this time.

i am not saying i miss you.

i am saying i would go back and live

each hour again with you, and i would take back

every lie i told, every time i turned away.

i would open my eyes until sleep

caught me and even then i would wait for you

in my dreams. my dreams

now are birds in flight, and i am running

after with this stone in my throat.

i am looking for you among them.

i am trying to number the days

until this passes, they say it passes. i am

believing it. i loved the oceans once,

loved the blue endless strain of it

its movement, the romance.

i am remembering that. what more can i

hold on to but the dark shape of you i dreamed of

across oceans, and i should have come to you.

i should have been braver.

i should have relented.

i am searching the present for a way

into the past, and each day that passes is a hard

thing i take from my throat and gather.

i move further from you. it hurts.

—love is dead. The slow

red rush, & in the absence of love we

raise steel walls

& castanet airs to dance

by. Love is gone

& all tenderness faded,

& in its place castles of knowing

in which we

pass our time from

hand to hand.

Hands which once pressed

earth into the shape of men & earth

into bowls for holding

nothing but sound, between sound

silence, melodic, & if dissonance

then beauty in dissonance as well, but always

the bowl,

shaped by hands,

made of earth & music

for lovers to dance by, & when the age

of dancing passed, to mourn by, & the when the age

of mourning passed, to burn

& lie in death.

if i begin to say i want this

to be the part of my body that touches

yours and i want the music in the next room

to stop

outside u-hauls move lives

the exact science of this is the science of moving whole

lives from one point to another as if life is a heavy shell on your back as if the only

point of my body is the one it makes when it shuts you in a dark room

called sex

is it your eyes i ask is it your eyes

things that are born and live in darkness (sea caves)

going to the next room and hoping you follow i say don’t fuck with the kid

who brought a gun back from easter holidays

don’t fuck

around i sleep but i only sleep around you

your body caught inside the curl of mine like a whisper as the sun waxes and wanes

late afternoon (we have come so far)

the sanctity fuck it the sanctity of life although i do not sanction

life i broke that fence but on this side of the century there are no sacred places

left there is no sanctity

no one listens to the music in the next room as i struggle to stay awake

clean thru to sunrise to see the new light examining the plane and scape of your face or as

i wait sober at the bar to know if it is me you think of home with

mostly or if night by night you carry your life with you as turtles do

(without asking i want nothing more than this)

as a turtle you do you are a bright thing born to darkness you are like birds’ nests thrashed

from trees in a hard rain or turtles’ eggs washed out to sea

if i begin to say but do not say that i will miss you do you hear it

do you listen in your sleep as i brush the light back from your face (your face)

bright thing as hard to look upon as the sun

as hard to leave as time behind

as hard to go as hard to go

in the west covina walmart / the city

dimming dark as blackberries / your voice

sweat-damp / in the shimmer

of the frozen foods aisle / i am still

happy / i have been writing

and the sound of the gulls / melancholy

in the harbor / does not enter me

i do not / have friends

who hanged themselves / i do not

have notes / i tell you this because there is

a funeral tomorrow / and all my clothes

have turned to paper / so i am

writing you (i hope) / for polyester

on my knees beneath / a streetlight

the sun a memory / as thin as white sand

i sell it by the handful / here is

august in a saltshaker / will you taste it

here is / last summer if you

remember it at all / i remember

it was my hand with roses / it was my hand

these were the roses / your eyes in the sun

drawn soft as petals / your lashes

brushing the curve of your cheek / my hand

with roses / inside your hair

i buy a truckful of august / to give you

in bursts / until your mouth tastes of salt

your skin when i kiss you / even

the skin where your legs meet / where i

find my hand with / roses

in the marina i am haunted / i am

haunted by the darkness / of stormwater

of rain / of your breath on

the side of my neck / and if it hardens

into snow / if i harden it is for you

when you fall sublime as snow / i am

still happy / i fill your face in blue

even if it is / only a shadow i see

only the vague / outline of a woman

i capture / instead of you

and again it is later / again i do not see you

again your number goes / to voicemail

and again i know where you are / bird-soft

your voice / the sun setting

in the window / of your half-bath

the privacy of a tub / filled not with water

but with cleaning supplies / i hold you

you hold / the shower curtains shut

the music dimming / dark as blackberries

dark as your eyes in the / part-light

slow-crawling across the tile / near flight

LAX in the moonlight / grounded

at midnight / you kick snow

from where the streetcars / used to run

and i touch your face / in the haunting dark

as if it is strange / as if you are a stranger

there is a funeral tomorrow / do you

remember / it is yours

i will wear my big white plastic suit / i will

write to you / would you like that

the streets are moving / they turn to water

here is the moon and here is a river / remember

how the river rings / remember to ask for

your mail / before you go home

remember i know / how your ears fold

back against your head / and i have kissed you

there / (am i the only one)

the surface of the snow / black as carbon

in your hair / i am still happy

to be in love with you / though i love

an ever-girl / and i am still writing

as if you’ll hear it / as if your ears are deep

and i am diving / headfirst through cold water

the bay high-tiding / after the storm

your voice haunting in the dark / the narrow

dark / i am void of starlight

i will wear my big white plastic suit / lie in

bed for days / as the gulls begin

to congregate around me / i tell them that

the funeral is not here / california

does not see the rain / instead the storms

pour out a haunting dark / over santiago, santiago

all your white shirts grey with rain / where

the canyons split / the soft earth

to show skin / pale as spring leaves

pale as the stars in their sky-quiver / the night

june-soft and trembling / a summer

not yet drained of salt / and so i kiss it

from your neck / or so i say

for valentina, 1999-2020.

& even in the motion

of moonlight on the reservoir, even

reflection, the sink mirror

showing half of someone else's

face, even in the scree

that tumbles down from off

the freeway, even running, even

in stars, even in adelaide

& even in december, with this

summer sun as thin as dust, the air so

heavy with the smell of stars, but

even in stars, even in writing,

even in the tide rolling facedown

past the bait shop, even

your mother, framed grey in the

doorway of your childhood

bedroom, even floodwater, even

in stars, even at home

& even in dusk, when i am

looking in your window again, even

in the glare of headlights, once, twice,

the bottle shop eight blocks away,

even hesitation, the smell of

smirnoff on your breath, the smell

of stars, even then, even i flower

in amber tones, copper plate camera,

the white creek running through

your backyard, even in drought, even

in stars, even in storm

& even in the warm light

of your eyes, caught in amber (god)

if caught in amber, then even

your eyes, green eyes, the warm sigh

of your hands, even ash, even in

the mausoleum, even seven years, you

start the music playing, unfold

the corner of the duvet, even in stars,

a memory of your smile, a small

reminder of your shoulder, shoulder,

i chase you on & off the freeway,

listen to the music, even your laugh,

even in stars, even the amber

moon as it writes love songs on

the reservoir, even in darkness, even

in suburbia, even the shape you

left on the fold-out mattress, even

the smell of stars tumbling in

floodwaters from your skin, all of you

caught in amber, even this

half-bath, even your arms.

listen to the way the sky moves:

a girl, bent half-spread over lilies

where the moon waxes & wanes,

gives voice to the sea as it

peers with longing

from stage left, reaching

thin fingers of salt into her body.

if the water moves then it is

asking you to come home, holding

an armful of lily-blossoms,

faces white as fear, white as the field

of skin where you find her thighs.

she shows you. she stupefies

even the moonlight as it passes in

& out of disguise: so here is august,

here is her body, & the shape

it makes on the fold-out mattress,

the heat it is against you,

& how soft they are (the sounds

it makes) if you touch her, if you

watch her like the sea does, quietly,

its salt like so much gasoline,

drawing sun into the night.

& thru the world, fire

fire, fire; &

with a breath, your body births

a miracle

that is the music. if i shut

the door between the back porch &

the sun

room where

you had your first kiss

then it is the space between

your hand

& the white snake of the garden hose

the wild

flowers that fill the front yard

in summer; in summer’s gaping mouth

you blossom like wildflowers

wild

flowers in the valley your spine makes

thru your waist, your entire

body wet with summer as it

breathes you into miracle

this is the music

the sun makes in the

wild dark

the wild flowers filling the valley with

a smell like summer, hot as

fire, fire

& the sun in this room is

fire, fire

& the breathing of the garden hose

& the shape of my body filling yours

& the white snake of the saline drip

then it is your hand filling mine

& the heat of you there is

fire, fire

& the heat of your mouth is

fire, fire

at the moment your skin ends

in time, the stars begin to open. i run to where the sand is and you blind my son. i come close to epiphany: some broken strain of music that starts to play in an empty room, and as you open doors it becomes louder. you, the stars that are your eyes, the sea lifting against you so in the sun you break, just slightly. you were a young girl. the smell of blood in your hair, your body innumerating in reflection as light grows inside the belly of darkness, light that comes between buildings and i decide how far to love you, if i can sleep tonight.